I was born into a family of companionate walkers. The walk-and-talk is threaded through my DNA and daily practice. In a cherished photo of my mother and me, we’re strolling along the pebbled banks of the Elk River in Clark, Colorado, deep in conversation. I’m in my 30s, dressed like a schlub in a ratty University of Iowa sweatshirt, a book tucked against my hip. She’s in her 60s, and is pulled together, even on this casual vacation, in a straw sun hat, crisp Oxford shirt knotted neatly at her waist. I don’t recall our conversation, but our immersion in the moment is clear, as is our ease with one another, our swinging limbs moving the ideas along as the river burbles over rocks a dozen feet away.
What magic happens when we walk with one another, just for the pleasure of it? Walking with beloveds is always how I puzzle through ideas —from whether to have a baby to what book I should read next. I love walking in companionable silence, a kind of “parallel play” of the mind, each lost in thought but moving in unison.
In the Seventies, during recess, my grade school friends and I looped the perimeter of the dusty playground, holding hands unselfconsciously, hashing through scenes in the Little House books or the adolescent shockers in Judy Blume. Hard conversations about friends or crushes were easier when we could gaze into the distance and kick along a pebble as we talked.
Once I dove into 19th century novels in middle school, my habit was confirmed by all the characters who strode across the moors, deep in conversation. Or, in the case of Pride and Prejudice, “taking a turn about the room,” as Caroline Bingley does in a parlor with Elizabeth Bennet, while Mr. Darcy muses on the confidences they might be sharing or the figures they might be showing off, to Caroline’s delight and Elizabeth’s mortification.
Now, I catch up with friends on a walk, in any weather. During this year’s first big snowstorm, my friend Debra and I were so lost in talk as we strode along the St. Joe river path that only 30 minutes in did we pause and belly-laugh when we realized we both looked like we’d been blasted by a flocking machine, from our fuzzy hoods to our coat hems. We brushed one another off, and kept going.
There’s science behind the flow state we enter when we walk and talk. As Shane O’Mara points out in his book, In Praise of Walking, beyond the exercise benefits of more blood flowing to the brain, the “systematic dual tasking” of walking and talking can engage theta brainwaves that aid learning and memory. How many of us have found a walk helps us get un-stuck?
When our children were babies, a walk was often the only way to calm the kvetching of colic. Once they were about 4 and 7, we let them walk around the block, unchaperoned, for the length of time it took to eat one popsicle.They graduated to the three-block sister walk to Bambers’ Superette, chattering away while carrying exact change for two dimpled bottles of Orangina, the most elegant drink of the single-digit set.
And when our elder daughter moved to Manhattan as an adult, her younger sister joined her to complete the “Broad City Challenge” inspired by the feminist comedy series, spending one epic day walking (and snacking) the length of Manhattan, starting at 225th street and noodling the 14-something miles to Battery Park. And perhaps related, Zohran Mamdani, in his successful campaign for New York City mayor, took the exact same walk, chatting up voters all the way, a walk that changed the course of history. (I’m not saying Zohran copied my daughters, but I’m not NOT saying that …)
Last August, I held the sweetly sticky hand of my two-year-old grandson on the same pebbly shore of the Elk River where I walked long ago with my mom. We talked about bugs, clouds, and love. He likes to quote his mama when it’s time to get him and his little brother out of the house: “Awright, boys, let’s take a walk!” I can’t think of better life advice.
